


Feel You Falling

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4765142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos tells Aramis to come with him. (coda fic for 2x08)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel You Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Look, not only do I think it is vastly important and amazing that Aramis accompanied Porthos on something that is so, so vastly important to Porthos in terms of his insecurities regarding his identity, his past, his 'family' and family, and his connection to the world - I think it's vastly telling that despite having no idea where they were going or what was happening, _Aramis still went with Porthos_. 
> 
> Anyway.

His heart hasn’t stopped thundering against his ribcage even once since Treville told him what he knew. Sitting there at his bedside, Treville didn’t look him in the eye – had only told him so little. And yet despite knowing it had something to do with his father, despite knowing it was important, that confirmation leaves Porthos spinning. His steps grow haphazard as he leaves the office now. His hands grip at nothing. His heart is too loud in his throat. And it _hurts._

There’s a ringing in his ears that hasn’t stopped – not once – buzzing out through him until all he can hear is the hum. He’s nearly crippled by the intensity of his frustration, his anger – Treville knew all these years, never said a word, _wouldn’t say a word now as to why he’d kept it—_

And it _hurts._

He opens his mouth to say the name, to test it out – Marquis de Belgarde. His father. His father, alive and noble and far away from him. The ringing increases. 

He could saddle up his horse right now, ride out for the two hours it’ll take to reach the estate Treville described to him. He could go now and reach it within the afternoon. He thinks of that long ride. He could move and find his answers – everything he’s been hoping for since he was a child, since the time when he was alone, withering away in dark corners of the Court, before Flea and Charon found him, before he forgot his birthday and his language and his everything. He thinks back and remembers how desperately he thought about it, every day, nails digging hard in the dirt as he searched for food – thought, perhaps, today would be the day that he might be found. Thought, perhaps, in the way that a small child can only ever hope when desperate, so desperate to belong, that today would be the day he’d be saved. 

And now, instead, it is Porthos who must go to him. And now, instead, it is Porthos who must hunt him down – years and years after the ache in his chest had eased but the longing never ceased. _Cherish those memories,_ he’d told Samara, the way she’d smiled and cried at the thought of her father – every little memory, every little thing unforgotten and raw in her. He never had that. 

He’s angry. He knows he is – he knows it shows on his face as some of the other musketeers scatter when they see him coming. He can’t make out their faces, can’t make out their fear and confusion – everything blurs together around him. All he can focus on, all he can hear is that ringing in his ears as if he has been shouting himself hoarse, as if he has compressed down into a little ball of everything he’d once dreamed of and made himself let go of. And now it all dredges back up again, as if he is a little welp in the dirt again, searching and yearning and crying out for a miracle that never came. 

It’s been years since his intense moods, years since he felt like he didn’t belong here, years since he felt he had to intimidate in order to move through life. He’s livid now, though, can barely breathe around it, can barely function around it. The world blurs around him and he could tear it all down easily, feels a certain invulnerability that speaks to false bravado more than anything else. 

He thinks of taking that long ride to that estate, meeting the father he never knew, going there and facing down every question he’s ever wondered, everything he’s ever wanted to know – ready to face a man who might despise him outright, who might deny him, who might—

He swallows down thickly and he _isn’t_ afraid but he is angry, he is hurt – at this man he never knew, at Treville for lying – and he doesn’t know how to speak around it, doesn’t know how to counterweigh that anger and that heartache, doesn’t know how to reconcile any of it. He could ride out today but he doesn’t think his shaking hands can handle the straps needed to get the saddle secure on his mare. The world splinters around him, the sting of hot tears there for one moment before he forces it down, swallows thickly around his beating heart. He is angry. He is so angry. 

The world comes back into focus when he turns his head and – Aramis is sitting at the table near the stables, cleaning off his gun. He looks up when Porthos approaches, his face lighting up in a smile, warm and gentle, reassurance – at least until he sees Porthos’ expression.

“Porthos…?” he asks, standing up too quickly, nearly catching his heel on the bench in his attempt to get away from the table and go over towards him. Concern, confusion – fear, but not at him, but for him, fear that he is hurt, fear that he is hurting. Aramis always did care too much. 

The words are there, ready to say it – to tell him. He knows who his father is, he knows where to go, he knows what he has to do. And he is. He’s terrified. He’s terrified of what he’ll discover – what he’ll learn, what he might learn, that he might travel all that way only for the gates to be closed to him forever. His heart beats hard in his chest – pained, then, that Treville would have lied to him all these years about something he knew was so important. 

He can’t say any of that. He goes to say it and can’t, his words all choked up inside of him, a jumbled mess of memories and hopes, of possible futures and possible scenarios, of everything he could do and can’t do. He could ride out there, on his own, and get his answers. He could tell him that. 

Instead he says, “Come with me.” 

It is not a request and it is not a demand – but there is a desperation in his voice he cannot hide, would never hide from Aramis. Aramis knows him too well, he would know of it – there is a pleading to his voice, a crippling _hope_. This, at least, he can let himself need – this, at least, he knows he can trust. He can always trust Aramis. 

_Come with me._

And Aramis looks at him, concern bright in his eyes, and he answers with no hesitation, “Of course.” 

No _where_ , no _why_ , no _what is it_. Porthos’ vision clears, he breathes out. He still feels that anger, he still feels that destructive terror – but it is something he can compartmentalize. It is something he can handle. He has handled all else in his life – he can handle this. 

_Of course,_ Aramis said, with no hesitation. He only nods, gathers his things, and follows Porthos. 

That, at least, is something that Porthos can count on. That, at least, is stability. 

_Of course._


End file.
